


The Deep Roads

by KittyVioletta



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Acrophobia, Claustrophobia, Facial Shaving, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyVioletta/pseuds/KittyVioletta
Summary: Dorian is not happy with his natural hair growth. Luckily, the Inquisitor can help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oneshot set in The Descent dlc. No major spoilers though.
> 
> This story is not beta read and english is not my native tongue, I'm sorry for the mistakes.

Maxwell Trevelyan hated the Deep Roads. He hated them with a fierce passion that almost surpassed his determination to stop whatever was causing these damned earthquakes and fulfilling his promise of aiding Orzammar. The road to their unknown destination, always deeper into the stone, was alternating between unspeakable heights, enough to cause a very frightening wish to just step over the rim, and very confined spaces, the weight of the world almost physically pressing on his ribcage. Some days he wished for darkspawn to show up, so he could forget for just some blissful minutes about the very real panic that gripped him every now and then since they entered the stone.  
Between the voices in his head, calling out to him to take that one little step too far, into the infinite depths, and the suffocating heat of the caves they camped in, were endless tunnels of cold, wet stone. So wet, even spindleweed managed to grow somehow. The cold was creeping into his bones and stayed there, even through the nights he spent on his bedroll, almost too close to the fire. He hated it. 

The beauty of the raw lyrium veins, the eerie glow they cast, bathing everything in a cool blue light, yet feeling somehow, alive, as crazy as that was, did nothing to distract him from his deep wish to be anywhere else on the surface. While he assumed he did a good job at hiding it from his companions, he thought he’d never remember again how it was to not feel anxious, miserable and sick all the time.  
As he felt a cold knot of useless fear starting to form in his belly, he tried to control his breathing, tried to not let the fear wash over him. He rolled on his side on the bedroll, hugging himself with one arm, propping his head on the hand of the other one and studied his companions instead to take his mind elsewhere. 

Varric seemed undisturbed, although he complained about the Deep Roads all the time. He was scribbling away in his notebook in front of the fire of the makeshift camp they made in an alcove just deep enough to be considered a small cave. Maker only knew what he deemed noteworthy in this dreadful environment. Everything they found between darkspawn and deepstalkers were long dead dwarves, memories of their mental breakdowns kept in journals, steadily rising in derangement and astoundingly well preserved age old belongings. For people who claimed to have a special connection to the stone, sure a lot of them fell victims to her merciless body, which drove all of them mad eventually, if they just ventured deep and long enough. 

Cassandra was the perfect picture of a warrior, her face grim, wearing a frown and her mouth set in a determined line, as she was trying to get rid of the last specks of darkspawn blood on her breastplate. Her deadly axe was already set out in front of her, to be groomed next. The thoroughness with which she sharpened the blade every night, was like a prayer before bedtime for Maxwell. Always when she pulled the whetstone over the blade and the cloth dampened in oil after it, again and again, in a steady rhythm, it felt almost soothing enough for him to fall asleep. 

He had to stifle a laugh as his gaze settled on Dorian. The mage sat on his own bedroll, trying desperately to see a reflection of himself in the shiniest thing he found in their stash, which was a not shiny at all mug. He muttered angrily to himself, while feeling his cheeks and throat, which admittedly had developed an impressive amount of stubble on the normally pristine shaven skin. They haven’t found fresh water in days and the little bit they still had with them was reserved for the wounded to drink instead of being used for grooming, which, of that Maxwell was sure, did not sit well with the vain mage.

Trevelyan sat up on his roll and reached into the pouch where he kept his few personal belongings. After some rummaging, his fingers closed around the desired object and after making sure his little hunting knife was still securely strapped to his ankle, he stood up and made the few steps over to Dorian, crouching beside him and getting an exasperated huff from the other mage. 

“I’m really angry with you right now, you know, Inquisitor? I can’t believe you managed talking me into thinking accompanying you into this damp hell would be a splendid idea. And considering saving some dwarves, on top of it all, took up most of my thoughts, causing me to forget my mirror.. It’s an outrage! Look at this mess.”  
He turned his head to look at Trevelyan directly, his serious annoyance clearly visible while his hand made a vague gesture at his own face. Maxwell just barely stopped the corners of his mouth from rising into a full grin but he allowed himself a small smirk. 

“Would you set me on fire, if I told you, it suits you?” 

“Of course it suits me. There is nothing on this Makers world that I can’t make work.”, Dorian huffed while trying to find a glimpse of his reflection in the cup again, “but I was convinced this homeless apostate look is your trademark style.”

“Hey, I’m sure it has to be en vogue somewhere in Thedas.”

This earned him two raised eyebrows and even a little gasp from the Tevinter.

“En Vogue? Don’t let Vivienne hear that you just said that, she might decide to support Corypheus’s destruction of the world after all.”

Maxwell chuckled at that. “I’ll make sure to get educated in the latest fashion trends properly before I talk to her again. Besides, we’re not just helping some dwarves, but looking at my luck those past few years, we keep them and probably all of Thedas from being erased from the face of the earth. Or the inside of the earth, as it is.” 

“Yeah yeah, how very noble of you, as always. Don’t mind the poor companions you drag along mercilessly and deprive them weeks of hot baths and a minimum of morning routine. How do you not have a filthy nest of louse ridden, matted hair, garnished with some darkspawn goo on your head anyway? I have yet to observe Your Worship washing properly.” 

“It’s a long cultivated routine of only bathing when someone makes me. Mostly Josephine lately, blackmailing me with organizing banquets with some noble pricks, who want to discuss how the Inquisition could make them even richer.”

Dorian stared at him, wide eyed and offended on such a personal level, Maxwell had to chuckle low in his throat again. 

“You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking. I’m tempted to throw you into the next puddle of lyrium infested waters we find, so that it’ll burn all that filth off of you.”

“Yeah, I’m joking, don’t worry. Well, partly joking at least. I was a bit hydrophobic in the past but that happens to change, when you’re covered in blood and demon intestines every so often. My hair though.. I grew them out in the circle already and a friend of mine, she read some research papers about how too much soap and water would make them weak, so, I just stopped washing them and brush all the filth out instead. Thinking about it now, I don’t know why the circle would even have papers on hair grooming..”, he trailed off, but as he saw Dorian’s look of horror intensifying he hurried to continue. “But your skin, it adapts! It stops producing so much grease when you don’t wash it away every two days!” 

Dorian did not look convinced, so he just took the mages left hand and put his fingers on his scalp. “Feel for yourself”, he said at the same time the Tevinter let out a little helpless yelp, confronted with such neglected hygiene. 

Maxwell did not expect the sudden rise of his heartbeat, the hitch of his breath, caused by Dorian’s warm fingertips, as they drove deeper into his long hair and softly rubbed over the sensitive skin just above his neck. “You’re right. It doesn’t feel greasy at all.”, Dorian murmured while his eyes grew softer, searching his face for something Maxwell didn’t know. Feeling Dorian’s fingers tremble just slightly when they left his scalp slowly, he cleared his throat, trying to make his blush disappear by sheer force of his will alone. 

“So, anyway, I might have something to help you in your predicament.” 

Dorian looked at his fingers pensively and rubbed them together slightly. “And what could that be, my dear Inquisitor? Have you found a spell to conjure a hot bath and some scented oils, preferably accompanied by some handsome helper who massages said oils right into my poor tortured skin?” he asked, the petulant words in contrast with the soft look and shy smile on his face Maxwell could not interpret.

“Not quite, but it’s something.”

Dorian watched intrigued as Maxwell opened his left hand and showed him a small bar of seemingly unremarkable, plain, soap. As he failed to comment on Trevelyan’s offering, the Inquisitor babbled on. “Well it’s nothing too fancy, just a gift from Josephine actually. It’s enriched with oils, so you can shave even with little water, or any liquid I guess, and the foam should be pretty stable. Also, because it’s so rich in oil no salve or anything is required afterwards, which is supposed to make the whole business easier while on the road, and since, obviously, I don’t shave, I thought you could use it..”

Dorian still had the small almost smile on his lips as he closed Maxwell’s hand around the little bar again. “That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you.”, he told him quietly. “But even if I had a sufficiently reflecting surface working as a mirror, I don’t have a razor with me. And I don’t plan on using Cassandra’s axe on my face. There have been way too many utterly disgusting fluids on it before.” 

Maxwell reached inside his boot and procured the little knife, holding it out and showing it to Dorian. It was dangerously sharp. A little insurance for when he was out of mana or got his staff taken away from him. Thank the Maker he did not have a use for it until now. 

“I could do it for you.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted saying anything it all. He felt his neck getting hot and red again with the embarrassment of offering something so mundane, yet incredibly intimate when done for another, to his companion.  
He forced himself to look right at Dorian, refusing to back down from his unthinkingly spoken words. Dorian had his eyes on the small knife though, and did not take them off of it, when he, barely audible, only breathed his answer.

“Yes, please.” 

The heat from Trevelyan’s neck rushed over his whole body then. He felt a flutter in his stomach that made his knees weak and tingled up to his fingertips. 

“Um. Okay. Just let me.. “ He lay down the knife, pulled off his gloves, reached around him to get the bag with the watered down wine they drank, put a bit of it in the cup Dorian was still holding and took it out of his hands. He dipped the bar of soap in the mug and lathered it up in his hands, creating a foam that smelled of Elfroot and the seasoned wine he used. He looked closely at Dorian, searching thoroughly for a sign of reluctance, any sign that he would rather not have Trevelyan’s hands all over his face and neck in just a moment but as he saw none, he robbed awkwardly closer, settling in front of the Tevinter on his knees. 

“You’ll need to get a little bit closer for that to work.”, Dorian pointed out and sat up on his knees himself, opening his legs and settled sitting on his calves. Maxwell scooted closer to his friend, his heart rate going up with every centimeter he moved closer between the mage's legs.  
As his knees just touched the inside of Dorian’s thighs, he stopped, settling to sit on his calves himself, his hands still foamy and he marveled for a few seconds at the soap actually holding up to its promise. 

Dorian huffed a little laugh. “No rush or anything, Inquisitor, but have you finished admiring that soap? I can almost feel my legs getting a little numb already.”  
“Of course, sorry, I..” Maxwell bit his tongue, not wanting to make this even weirder as it was.  
He heard and felt the little intake of breath as he lay his hands on Dorian’s face, gently spreading the foam on his cheeks, rubbing little circles into the soft skin to lather it up a bit more, spreading it over his prominent jaw, down his throat, to get every little hair thoroughly covered in the velvety foam. He stroked over his chin, feeling the fine bone structure under the soft flesh decked in dark hair, admiring his strong and noble expression and suddenly remembered Dorian telling him that he was the result of generations of careful breeding, to satisfy his parents need of a suitable heir. He also remembered the rage he felt at that time, when he listened to his friend talk about himself as if he was livestock. His worth depending on how useful he could be. Dorian was so much more, and meant so much more to him than a carefully exercised experiment. And he was beautiful. 

Maxwell tried to convey his affection through the gentle streaks he did on the Tevinter’s face. Neither spoke for some time, Dorian had closed his eyes the moment, Maxwell’s hands had touched his skin and the Inquisitor couldn’t decide if it was for better or for worse. Wondered, if he could go through with what was actually his idea, while he had the watchful eyes of his friend on him, observing every step he would perform.  
He was sure Dorian could hear his heart pounding inside his chest, knew he could feel the little tremble of his fingers, which if asked, he would blame on the nonexistent cold in the cave.  
He wiped his hands on his trousers, reached for the little knife and held the blade with his right hand on Dorians cheek, just next to his ear while slightly turning and steadying the other mages faces with his left hand, thumb on his chin, the other fingers on his jaw and neck. 

“I’ll start now, please hold still..” he all but murmured under his breath while calming his hands. Dorian said nothing in return but Maxwell saw his larynx bob as he swallowed instead of a response. 

As the blade slid down the mage’s skin effortlessly for the first stripe, Maxwell felt his chest filling with even more affection for his friend, who openly showed him his trust once again in this unusual procedure. He gained confidence with no sign of discomfort from Dorian and made quick work with the larger areas of his face. Efficient as expected of him at all times. He turned the mage’s head gently like he needed it to reach the more complicated spots.  
He held the little patch of hair under Dorian’s lower lip to the side, as he very carefully took the knife to work there, the tip of his thumb just so resting on the other’s lip, warm and way softer than he could have imagined.  
The fingers that lay on his throat to steady Maxwell’s hands could feel Dorian’s quickened pulse, but he refused to think about it. He couldn’t stop the warm feeling of content in his chest from still growing though, until he felt his body was too small to contain it all.

He took a calming breath and started to work on the contours of his moustache, carefully removing the hairs on the sides, under the twirled edges, his thumb lying on the corners of Dorian’s mouth, feeling the ghost of a smile trying to appear on the mage’s face.

As he spoke, his voice sounded brittle. “Would you have me try trimming your mustache?”

“Maybe just the part above my lips. I couldn’t go on knowing I actively consented to you ruining this carefully crafted masterwork of a facial hairstyle. I do have a comb with me somewhere in my pouch.”  
Maxwell reached around him, leaning even closer into Dorian, while rummaging around in his belongings, feeling the warmth of his body, brushing against him every so often. He returned with the comb in his hand and resumed his position between his legs, only then thinking about how he did not know, if he was permitted to just go through his companion’s things.  
Dorian had opened his eyes, watching him, but no sign of anger nor comment on his ingenuous searching, so he guessed he got away with it this time. He made a mental note to be more considerate the next time. If there even was a next time for anything comparable. 

He softly combed through the longer grown hair above Dorian’s lips, first from the top to straighten them out, then from the bottom up, to keep them away from the vulnerable skin, while he worked the knife over the comb, feeling the other’s warm breath on his fingers. 

When Maxwell thought he had reached everything, he smoothed the remaining hair down, gently twirling one end of the mustache to see if the longer hair fit with his cutting.  
He put the knife away, again wiping his hands on his trousers and poured some watered wine over his hands, to put them carefully on Dorian’s face again, stroking down, trying to remove any loose hair that stuck to the skin, pointedly not looking in the mage’s eyes, that he felt burning on his face.  
He kept Dorian’s face in his hands, unconsciously rubbing soft circles just below the cheekbones, unable to let go just yet, as he spoke. “Well, I am no barber, but I think you could be considered properly groomed again.” 

As he looked up because Dorian failed to answer, he felt a stab of hot anticipation surge through him. The mage’s eyes were fixed on his mouth as he closed the distance between them, gently pressing his lips to Maxwell’s. He pulled back slightly to breathe “Thank you.” against his lips and closed the gap again, this time with more pressure. Maxwell angled his head slightly, unable to separate and finding no reason to.  
Letting one hand slip from Dorian’s cheek to the back of his head, he softly gripped the grown hair there. He opened his mouth just barely and felt Dorian doing the same, allowing their chaste press of lips to become something more intimate, their tongues meeting shy and slowly. 

As he heard the whetstone meeting Cassandra’s blade, he felt some shame at being so caught up in the moment that he managed to forget about his surroundings. He pulled out of the kiss, one hand still on Dorian’s cheek, still stroking the soft skin with his thumb and words failed him as they just looked in each other’s eyes. His knees cried in protest as he started to get up, standing for an awkward moment in front of Dorians bedroll, dusting nonexistent filth off of his trousers. 

He opened his mouth, but still did not in the least know what to say, so he just closed it again, turning around to walk over to his own bedroll, his head filled with too much thoughts and none at all at the same time. While he lay down on his side, to look past the small campfire over to Dorian, he pretended to not have noticed Varric still writing in his journal with a knowing smirk on his face, and Cassandra’s bright red head. 

He fell asleep to the repeated grinding sound of the whetstone filling the little cave.


End file.
